


Con/tempt

by Irrelevancy



Series: Organic Rituals [2]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Anal Beads, Anal Fingering, Breathplay, Bullets, Captivity, Chains, Choking, Cock Cages, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Genital Torture, Gunplay, Heavy BDSM, M/M, Object Insertion, Orgasm Denial, Prostate Milking, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Stockholm Syndrome, Vibrators, dark!Benn, technically a sequel to the skinning fic I guess??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22375531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrelevancy/pseuds/Irrelevancy
Summary: “Trying to escape when the captain’s not around,” Benn Beckman drawled, pulling the last loop of chain tight around Marco’s thigh. “Devious little pet, aren’t you.”dark!Benn/Marco with ample room left for Shanks; bullets and gunplay of a very specific kind i guess
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks & Benn Beckmann, Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco, Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco/Benn Beckmann, Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco/Benn Beckman
Series: Organic Rituals [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632484
Comments: 12
Kudos: 85





	Con/tempt

**Author's Note:**

> soggy was like "bullets and gunplay! that's hot!" and i just?? decided to take it here i guess??
> 
> benn beckman anon this does NOT count as a fill but what the hell, it's an apertif
> 
> this doesn't actually need the same context, but in my head it takes place in the same realm of happenings as [the skinning fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21843403)
> 
> PLEASE NOTE THE TAGS! more content warnings at end.

“Trying to escape when the captain’s not around,” Benn Beckman drawled, pulling the last loop of chain tight around Marco’s thigh. “Devious little pet, aren’t you.”

The gag was a seastone bar lashed tight between Marco’s lips, its points of contact making Marco’s skin tingle with drab buzzing. The chains were only metal, but trust Shanks’ right-hand man to efficiently lash Marco down in such an intricate tangle of links that even if Marco turned phoenix, he wouldn’t be able to escape. As if Benn had gathered up the bars of a birdcage, metal bending easy as threads in the hand of the owner but smothering the pet within.

Fuck that. Marco was nobody’s _pet_.

His eyes gave his thoughts away. Benn gave back as good as he got: a simple eyebrow quirk, an unchanging level stare, the barest twitch at a corner of his mouth.

_Aren’t you though?_

Benn was the skeptical expression; the voice was all Shanks. Trust Red Hair to haunt Marco even in his absence—by proxy. Benn Beckman was nothing but his captain’s proxy.

Another wordless exchange: Marco’s eyes narrowing, the slow, demonstrative cock of Benn’s head.

_And what does that make you?_

It made Marco—this was thought with an aborted laugh of hysteria in his mind—some sort of trussed up _chicken_ , a fowl set to be stuffed and basted and shoved in an oven, what with the way Benn had chained his wrists separately to each ankle. Had lashed his knees wide apart by chain lengths affixed to either side of the headboard and under the bed.

Marco hasn’t had clothes in a _long_ time, here in Shanks’ “service.” He was humiliatingly not humiliated by being posed spread open like this, his caged-up cock ( _not_ Benn—that one was all Shanks; two layers of caging on Marco by Captain and First Mate) and hole perfectly available for perusal.

And peruse Benn Beckman did. Marco couldn’t help but twitch under that _penetrating_ stare, and saw Benn smirk again.

“Chains never keep you long, do they? We need something to more permanently weigh you down.”

He’d been ready, this monstrously human man with his superpowered brain. He’d been ready and anticipated, because this was _Shanks’_ room and Benn could still reach behind the closet door and pull down a bandoleer, stuffed full with large caliber rounds.

All the muscles in his arms flexed—quite deliberately, Marco felt—when Benn tossed the belt onto the bed. It hit with a dull, weighted sound right beside Marco’s constrained leg.

As if the metallic cold of the bullets themselves bled into the air around them (and the man beside them), Marco felt an icy shiver traverse the curve of his spine.

“How many,” Benn said, because he wasn’t the type to bother over-explaining what was clearly about to happen, “do you think you can take?”

Marco could see the worst purpose in the question: set a ceiling of expectation, make Marco anticipate that number, and then break Marco further by going past it. Marco could grit his teeth and wait it out all he wanted, but it’s not like the method would be any less effective if Benn simply dictated the number himself.

Case in point:

“Ten?”

Marco blinked. That was actually tamer than he’d expected.

“I’m not the one who wants to torture you,” Benn chuckled softly, even _fondly_. Like all his captain’s more terrifying whims were merely a friend’s wishes to indulge. Like all the ways he’s opened Marco up at Shanks’ behest had just been _favors_. “Ten’s good enough for me, if it’s enough for you.”

 _Gotta learn your lesson,_ Shanks would probably say had he been here, with that _aw I’m sorry I hafta do this_ smile and the friendly brown eyes. _So how about it Marco? Will you have learned by ten, or will I have to keep going?_

Yeah—Benn could say ten all he wanted, but this was Shanks’ ship, Shanks’ room, Shanks’ left hand man. Marco knew better than to hold his breath.

Pulling out a bottle of lube (he was so fucking _prepared_ ), Benn tilted a generous pour right onto Marco’s cock, letting biology and the lines of the cock cage both guide the liquid down to Marco’s ass. Marco hissed at the cold, chains jerking in loud clangs all around the bed.

“It’ll warm up.” A pedantic statement. Not said for meaning but for mockery. And wasn’t that just the perfect summation of Marco put in Shanks’ cage? Blistering, callous cold, but _it’ll warm up_. The shackles, the lubricant. The fucking bullets.

The first one was thick in Benn’s palm. His fingers could still close around it, but the man had big hands. Benn lined the tapered tip up against Marco, and didn’t tease like Shanks would’ve.

A cigarette had also found its way to the corner of Benn’s mouth. Marco stared without seeing as Benn struck a match against a rough edge of his belt, lit the cigarette, and pressed the bullet inside Marco all at once.

 _Cold_. Marco held back all noises of discomfort this time, not wanting to see the _yes, we’ve established this_ twist of Benn’s knowing mouth. Instead, he kept his attentions fixed ahead as his body worked itself through spasms of discomfort. Benn, obligingly, held his thumb over Marco’s hole. The butt of that first bullet stuck obstructively, almost painfully at Marco’s entrance, until Marco finally relaxed enough—and the metal became warm enough—for the bullet to slip and settle more obligingly inside.

Benn sighed out an approving wisp of smoke. Grabbed another bullet.

“You’ve done this sort of thing before,” he observed with muted humor as he worked this second bullet first only halfway in. He moved it around as if pointing it in different firing trajectories out of Marco’s body, before finally choosing one angle and _pushing_. Marco felt the two bullets clack against each other, settling in almost side-by-side, dull and metallic against his sensitive walls.

“Do you enjoy anal beads?”

Of course Marco did; experimentation some years prior had yielded results that were more than satisfactory. But that one time he’d tried had been an attached string of five beads, each one much smaller than the fucking _rifle bullets_ Benn was using now. Two already felt deep, and _cold-but-warming_.

(They also felt weighted. The promised anchors, the stones sewn into the pockets of the drowned corpse.)

“I’d take out the gag, but—” A ragged gasp was muffled at Marco’s lips when the third bullet slipped in. “—captain’s orders were to make it hurt. You know how Shanks gets.”

 _I know how Shanks gets_. Marco wanted to laugh, wanted to scream. _I know how Shanks gets_.

Bullets four and five. At least Benn was making these quick. The combined sizes of the inserted bullets plus their irregular alignment inside Marco meant pressure was being applied in odd, unexpected places. Lines were massaged against Marco’s walls by the pointed tips; the stiff barrel shapes forced Marco to stretch and accommodate.

That also meant Marco’s cock was—fucking uselessly—thickening inside its cage.

 _Shanks’_ cage, Marco desperately told himself. This was not his; none of this had any sort of epistemological belonging to him. These were simply put on him, and around him, and now in him. Bound and spread and stuffed all at once, by these accoutrements of impersonal metal. Here to occupy Marco’s attentions while his _owner_ wasn’t home.

Benn Beckman was one of those impersonal metal things. Gunmetal hair and grey smoke. A manner so genial Marco couldn’t even work up the vicious spitting _red_ he so easily felt toward Shanks. Just grey. Just steel.

Benn took a last deep drag of his cigarette before tossing the butt aside. He breathed it out at the ceiling, and tapped out five bullets from the bandoleer like smokes out the box.

“It’ll probably start to hurt now,” he said, as if Marco wasn’t a fucking _doctor_ , and knew exactly what happened to five—soon to be ten—loose items shoved up into his guts. Marco scoffed so loudly that Benn paused, with the sixth bullet nearly inserted.

“You,” Benn said, after a moment of observation, “disparage me.”

The sixth bullet finished going in with no more and no less force felt than the five prior. That was more the accomplishment, Marco knew, because that meant Benn was recalibrating his own insertion strength to match the increasing amount of resistance coming from both the gathered bullets and Marco’s own body. Benn had always been like this: a precision instrument, wieldable both when precision meant a pinprick and when it meant instead blunt force trauma to bone.

Shanks’ instrument. Marco met Benn’s assessing gaze and snarled his fucking _disparagement_.

“You’d know better than most,” Benn pointed out, ever-logical and all the more frustrating for it. “Thinking of me as nothing but a tool of my captain’s is hardly an insult.”

Seventh bullet, circling. Marco tossed his head back in a laugh; if he had his words, he’d tell Benn that he was fucking _bored_. Ten bullets, probably a plug to keep everything in, Shanks’ favorite pet bird grounded again by yet another predictably unpredictable mean. Rinse, repeat, and Marco would never stop trying to get free but Benn’s steel smoke, Shanks’ red hand would always, always cage him back. Fucking bored.

“…But I suppose every man still has his pride. Again, you’d know better than most. Or do you?”

The seventh bullet was shoved in alongside two decisive fingers. Marco flinched from the coarse and sudden pain, lifting his head with wide-eyed shock and there was Benn—

Inert cold was a lie when it came to gunmetal; like his struck match, the cherry red draw of breath, Benn Beckman still burned upon firing.

Benn moved like a man the World Government only wanted dead upon apprehension. The chains on Marco were wrapped all around the bed—when he was being lashed down, Marco had taken only cursory notice. That was a mistake. With the step of one long leg, Benn wrapped the toe of his boot precisely around just one of many criss-crossing chains, positioned ever so conveniently, and simply pulled.

The corresponding links wrapped around Marco’s neck (that had just sat there pretty for the duration of this exercise so far—Marco had assumed it nothing more than a warning) tightened, and began cutting off air.

But that was only part one of Benn’s series of machine actions. The two fingers, thick as an eighth bullet put together, _hooked_. He lifted Marco’s ass higher like this, like drawing a pig up to be bled and butchered, bending Marco from the waist so that looking up, Marco’s sight was perfectly aligned with—

Benn, unlike Shanks, had one more free hand. He took two more fingers now and slid it under the cage around Marco’s cock. Started rubbing along the shaft.

“While I’m not as predisposed to hurting you as Shanks,” he said, tone idle even as every part of Marco began to helplessly shake from air loss and the ministrations, “I do like you. I don’t like that you think poorly of me.”

Marco choked—on the chain and irony both. That wasn’t— How dare he imply—

“But as I’m _only_ the First Mate—” This sentence he punctuated with a bullet tip pushed _hard_ against Marco’s prostate, and the scratch of a fingernail against Marco’s sensitive head. Marco spasmed with a gurgled shout, chain still keeping his throat constrained. “—there’s only so much I can do for you. And we both know your pleasure is the Captain’s prerogative.”

Precome leaked out of Marco’s cock, but Marco knew, short of Benn grabbing a knife and cutting _everything_ off, the cage wasn’t going anywhere until Shanks got back. The tightness in his stomach then, was the build of both arousal (he was so _stupidly_ sensitive, after three fucking weeks of being caged and left untouched) and dread.

Benn wasn’t going to let him orgasm. But—

“Sorry you have to settle for the next best thing, hm?”

—he was going to milk Marco dry.

That was, if he didn’t strangle Marco to death first, which seemed like the better and better option. Just as black dots spread like soot all across Marco’s vision, Benn loosened the tension of his foot.

Pinched the head of Marco’s cock, pressed uncomfortably now up against the inside of the cage, when Marco sucked in a ragged breath.

Marco’s entire body _seized_ —the eager anticipation of an orgasm cruelly and definitively stoppered by a cool wrap of metal. Semen still dribbled out, slipping past the bars to fall, as was surely the intention, directly onto Marco’s face.

 _Clink!_ Neck yanked back by the chain again, Marco felt tears escape his eyes to join the come and jaw-aching drool on his face. Fuck. _Fuck_. Was this Benn angry? The fingers in his ass _spread_ , did some specific little fiddling that pushed most of the bullets heavier into Marco, then rolling one barrel hard and flat right up against Marco’s front wall like he was rolling a goddamn cigarette.

More come. No orgasm. The liquid hit Marco’s bottom lip this time, mixing wetly with saliva to slowly tangle past the gag and into Marco’s mouth. The chain was loosened just enough for Marco to sob out loud, and Benn looked pleased. None of Shanks’ sharp contrast between red and dark, just the same gleaming grey running cold and hot and cold and hot.

“We said ten, didn’t we?”

A cry left Marco’s throat again when the fingers were pulled out, and two bullet tips were aligned against him at once. He felt so disgustingly _full_ , and all he could taste was a metallic tang at the back of his throat and the salt of his own semen. The bullets that had first went in cold were now as hot as he was, the roil of them like heavy water boiling.

“I’ve never even held a rifle before I met Shanks, you know,” Benn conversed easily as he sighted Marco’s face over the vulgar line of the cock cage. To say that statement was hard to believe was like saying Impel Down made its inmates a little bit uncomfortable. “A rifle’s different than a bat or a knife; you gotta be ready to kill once it’s loaded in your hands. The rifle’s a weapon, sure, but so are you now.”

He chambered the bullets into Marco with a practiced thumb. Marco tossed his head back on a wail, but Benn was quick to choke him off again.

“It’s not so bad is it, being his. We care for our own.” The hand weaving back inside bars to milk Marco’s cock once more was supposed to be a twisted demonstration of that care, Marco guessed. The purposeful grind of Benn’s foot, the chain dragging _pinchingbruisings_ _coring_ a diced-up streak of vivid red across Marco’s neck, probably was too. _Cut along the dotted line_ , Marco thought in a fit of black-clasped hysteria, _please pleasepleaseplea—_

Benn hummed, smoothing the flat of his palm generously over Marco’s straining rim in a wordless yet clear command. Fuck, and Marco was so _stu_ _f_ _f_ _ed_ but he had to _—_ He still had to—

“But tell you what, since the Captain still wants you to stay of your own volition, we can show you some good will.” If Marco could laugh he would. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t. And Benn’s voice slipping in an out of his hearing was yet another thing he had to fight to keep a hold on. “Let’s spare you that last bullet.”

A light slap to Marco’s face resuscitated both his breath and attention, as Benn took the last bullet and grazed it up and down Marco’s cock, metal clacking against metal. It was oddly melodic, if melody was gagged and stripped and bound, if orchestral strings were only allowed the dullest vibrations pressed under fingers, if resonance was flung in a box and _kept_ there, no matter how hard the sound waves threw themselves at the walls, trying to shove right through or dash themselves to death because being kept and stifled in here was no option dammit—

Another slap, and the chain caught on Marco’s larynx in mild warning.

“Still can’t make it easy on you though.” One knee up behind Marco’s spine, Benn was still looming, the tendrils of his hair falling like gunpowder residue or the burnt-out tip of a cigarette. Marco stared. The line of lips was straight as a gun barrel, tongue behind them the trigger.

Benn reached over and pressed something hard to the corner of Marco’s mouth: the bullet, body-warmed. An unlit cigarette dangled out his own mouth, slipped there somehow, sometime when Marco’s eyes slipped focus. The bullet was twisted against the mess of semen on Marco’s face, pushed under the gag (clacking uncomfortably against teeth), and slipped onto Marco’s tongue.

“Loophole,” Benn declared with satisfaction and a subtle wink. “Shanks would probably crack a joke about you not biting the bullet, huh?”

The bullet was so heavy that Marco had to maneuver it under his tongue (meaning more saliva slid unbidden from his mouth but what shred of dignity did he even have left anyways?), lest it tumbled straight into his gullet. Tugging over two chains oh-so-conveniently placed, Benn now hooked up Marco’s thighs so that when he stood back, Marco was still trussed up at the exact same angle. He must fancy himself quite the sculptor, Marco thought in bitter derision. A Pygmalion of reverse perversions.

“Want to know what else Shanks would do?”

This was Shanks’ room, and Marco knew already about the drawer under the bed. Had his cortisol shooting through the roof every time Shanks went to that drawer. Now it was Benn at that drawer, and Marco’s heart was racing faster and faster, as smoke and blood superimposed—

Benn was a straightforward man. A black toy dangled from his hand when he stood, and at least Marco had been right—predictably unpredictable, ten bullets and a plug. Fucking boring. Except, there was nothing boring about the way Benn sauntered over to Marco’s other side, nothing boring about the way he twisted the toy until Marco could see the secondary protrusion out from the base of it, a long arching curve that was clearly designed to reach the cock even when the first bit sat in Marco’s ass and—

 _No_ —

—Marco started struggling, blood springing to his gums as he bit down so damn hard on the seastone—

“—oh, careful there—”

That quick-draw hand pushed the bullets back into Marco when they threatened to come out. Pushed the plug in too for good measure. It was bigger than the bullets but just barely, though equally mean and silver. There wasn’t quite enough lube. Marco yelped, bullet tumbling against his already-sore teeth.

“You’re the one—” Benn turned the plug like twisting a knob on a machine, rearranging all the bullets until everything was prodding Marco anew again. That secondary extension was rotated up to the top, and it was flexible enough for Benn to push down. Slip the tip under the bottom bar of Marco’s cock cage. Benn met Marco’s eyes and _glared_. “—who’d rather it be Shanks here, right?”

Benn pushed the button at the base of the plug and started the vibrations.

Metal to metal to metal. The sensations built far too quickly for Marco’s already-panicked mind to process and before he knew it, there was that godawful _cramping_ at the base of his stomach, the intentional _squeezing_ of every muscle he could muster in a pathetic imitation of an actual orgasm. Pleasure lacerated, semen once again dripping out like a shredded handful of virginal lace and landing on Marco’s nose, his squeezed-shut eyes.

And Benn had stepped back, which meant—

Nothing was _stopping_. Cold went to warm went to hot—the stoppered liquid heat of _serration_ , everything clenched so tight with that unceasing unrelenting _unforgiving_ stimulus on Marco’s trapped cock, on all the singing metal bullets vibrating with the need to go shatter-point within him and—

It was tearing another tongueful of semen out of him and—

Marco’s eyes shot wide open, needing so badly just to _see_. All his other senses were tied up-tied down- _weighed_ down by ruthless constancy—the smell of his own salt and musk; the metal taste of the bullet and his own bitten blood; the feeling of everything (fucking _everything_ ) set painfully abuzz; the sound of that goddamn vibrating. All he had were his eyes, and he was searching—was searching—

Benn had kicked back on a chair, feet propped up beside Marco on the bed. He was smoking. He was watching. The tremors grew _violent_ again and Marco cried out, something lost and hoarse, when _agonizing_ drops of semen hit his eyelashes. He squeezed them out with tears, noises helplessly sobbed as the humiliation hit in full force. He was fucking _watching_.

How could he—

( _Please, please please forgive me—_ )

How _long_ could he—

The answer: more than ten. Marco fucking knew it. Better than to hold his breath. At some point Benn tried the chain across Marco’s neck again, but quickly realized that it was perfectly unnecessary, thanks to the bullet Marco just couldn’t spit out. His entire mouth so sore and tired at this point that his tongue couldn’t keep the bullet in place, Marco could only keep gagging it back up every time it fell. Everything ached. His legs, his back, his ass his cock his goddamn _pinky t_ _oe_ _s_. But it still wouldn’t fucking stop. Benn still wouldn’t press the button to stop the awful cramping, but at least the semen has pretty much run dry at this point and Marco was just _hurting_ , caged up so tightly and stiff as wrought metal.

Benn was on his third cigarette, breathing through them with long-practiced patience.

“Shanks,” he said, not without that constant loyal affection, “would wait ‘til you’ve passed out, then take the gag off. He’d let your fruit heal you just enough before taking it away again. And he’d let you wake up to another round of fresh come on your face.”

Marco shook his head, and shook, and shook. He knew what Benn wanted now. He knew what song the First Mate wanted this caged bird to sing and did his best to say it around the gag. Lips and tongue and come and drool. Blood and cracked teeth. But just as Marco managed to pull enough air despite his seizing body, just as he moved his split lips to speak that fucking _bullet_ — It slipped again, this time with great finality straight down Marco’s throat. And it was _big_ , and it _caught_ , plugged Marco _full_ like a lead slug into a last slot and Benn’s hands were on him again, on his face on his neck and in Benn Beckman’s gun-calloused palms Marco just couldn’t be sure if he was getting shot or wielded—

His phoenix screamed. Marco’s head twisted to the side as he hacked up the bullet in a shot of blue but _no_ , the fire was still traveling, eager to heal its owner, and Benn was still smoking (with Marco’s removed gag in his hand), eyes like the dark stare of a barrel at the prey and Marco had to _say it_ —

“ _Benn_ —”

The fire’s reached his belly. Healed and replenished where it hurt the most, which meant Marco now gnashed his teeth around another scream, tears pouring so desperately free in fevered streaks down his temples as Benn Beckman’s fucking _prophecy_ came true and fresh come hit his mouth again. Benn got out of the way, of course. But was it even a prophecy if Benn was the seer, the hood, and the shooting squad? The last cigarette at dawn? This was Benn Beckman’s fucking _will_.

Metal contained the ignition. Smoke outlasted the fire.

“Benn,” Marco begged, as _Shanks’_ cage, gone so cold in its steady violence around Marco’s cock, continued its predetermined termination of all pleasure a body was capable of. Benn’s eyes, meanwhile, warmed, framed by crow’s feet. Less the steel and more the man. “ _Benn_ , please.”

Benn pressed the seastone back between Marco’s lips, and Marco’s whole body heaved with panicked weeping. No, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Benn was supposed to _forgive_ —

But Benn had a palm on Marco’s chest, soothing as he made gentle shushing noises. On a downstroke, warm ash fell from the cigarette pinched between his knuckles and onto Marco’s throat.

“Gotta keep you down, remember? That’s the whole point of this exercise,” Benn murmured. This time, he didn’t move when another round of semen leaked from Marco’s cock, instead caught it at the source and rubbed it into Marco’s nipples. Stimulus was stimulus was stimulus, and Marco shivered and whimpered at the new sensation. He came faster, hips helplessly twitching with the bullets all a-rattle within, and Benn found new places to rub. To more quickly milk Marco empty.

Benn left Shanks’ cage entirely untouched.

“Almost there.”

Marco thought there was the familiar sensation of that chain tightening around his neck again, but he couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t care. All he knew was everything greying. His breath, his body, his vision. The vibrations haven’t stopped, but Marco himself was stalling, which was just as effective he guessed. _More than ten_ , was his last vaporous thought, too hysterical to be remembered even just one moment later, _ten bullets precisely, but_ _way more than fucking ten. He’s a bastard too_.

…He woke up unbound, but too fully drained to do anything about it. All the chains had been stored away, and Marco’s aching legs were finally left to lay flat on the bed. With the last wisps of energy he could call up, Marco turned his head toward the sound of breathing.

Benn was lying on the bed beside him, propped up on one arm and watching. His expression was easy and pleased. Marco’s gaze focused for one moment on it, then slipped away in exhaustion.

The bullets and the plug were still inside Marco. He felt their weight like an anchor, a defeat.

“Don’t think we can get some of those bullets out of you without surgical tools,” Benn remarked, with the distinct manner of telling someone _hey it’s cold out, better bring a jacket_. “You can rest some more before we do something about that.”

He was, of course, chewing on another cigarette. Marco didn’t even have the strength to lift his hand off the bed. But he could turn his palm up, and let a small gold flame kindle on the tip of his index finger.

Keeping steady, considering eye contact with Marco, Benn bent down and let Marco light his smoke.

“What do you think this has changed?” Benn asked, genuinely curious, with his voice gone husky deep as he breathed that grey all the way into his lungs. Cherry red tip. Ashes falling like game birds shot out of the sky. There were moments, Marco realized, when fire and smoke could be separated, when one consumed more vulgarly than the other but at the end of the day, they were immutably entwined. Benn may be gun and bullet, but Shanks was firing pin and trigger finger.

And Marco was—

Marco was finding the cold less biting. He’d been warmed to it. He’d been loaded and spun, he’d been grooved with rifling. He’s been _practiced with_ in Benn’s crackshot hands. The only difference between a pet and a weapon was where it was kept, and Marco’s already decided he was nobody’s pet.

Benn looked down at him like he might agree now.

“Nothing yoi. Nothing’s changed at all.”

The bullets were warm inside him.

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Benn has Marco chained up and anally inserts nine large caliber bullets. Marco is gagged with another bullet and a bar gag, also wears a cock cage. Benn later inserts a vibrating butt plug and forces Marco to release semen without orgasming due to the cock cage. This goes on for a long time until Marco begs for it to stop.
> 
> I'm... obviously obsessed with this idea of dark!Shanks (and dark!Benn by association) recruiting Marco to his crew by any means necessary. Also with Marco getting fucked but we been knew. Please let me know if there are additional things I should tag!!
> 
> My [tumblr](https://touchmycoat.tumblr.com/). Drop a comment!!!


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